


Never Serene

by Jenshih_Blue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenshih_Blue/pseuds/Jenshih_Blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade has done many a questionable thing in his life, yet lying to a friend was never one of them. Discovering two secrets, he knows he cannot keep either nor should he do so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Serene

True friendship is never serene.  
~ Marie de Sévigné, letter (1671)

 

There are those who say the dead linger in churchyards, wisps of their former selves, wandering among the gravestones in search of a way to connect to the living. In truth it is the living not the dead who wander these lonely places. Lost in memories of a life the dead no longer have a need or care for, a life the living long to recreate. The dead have—depending who you speak with—either moved on or simply ceased to exist.

DI Gregory Lestrade had come to understand this on a more intimate level than most considering his line of work. He couldn’t begin to count the number of murderers he’d arrested due to their overwhelming desire to show up at the funerals of their victims. It seemed as if they fed on the grief of those left behind, gorging themselves to the point of stupidity. Most of the living never rose far from being bottom feeders, in his humble opinion, with the exception of a rare few. It was one of those few exceptions that had Lestrade lingering in the darkness now back to a towering oak, branches spread wide and shadow creeping across headstones as if spilled ink.

For weeks now, he’d been unable to sleep watching as early spring tumbled closer to summer. The fallout from the suicide of Sherlock Holmes had turned his life into menagerie of HMIC fools questioning his entire caseload for the past seven years. The HMIC were investigating Lestrade and all the officers involved in every case Sherlock had assisted on down to how many times a day they visited the loo. It was a pain in the arse, their intrusive behavior wearing on his last nerve. Thus, the insomnia and the reason he found himself yet again standing in a churchyard as the distant toll of the midnight hour echoed through the darkness.

The first time he’d been unable to sleep, he’d tried everything. Nothing seemed to work so he dressed and gotten in the car eventually, driving in circles until he discovered himself outside Brookwood Cemetery. He sat in the car, across the way, cursing the fact he’d come up with the brilliant idea to quit smoking. He came damn close to starting up again right before Holmes had taken his swan dive. As the minutes ticked by, he became twitchy enough he would have sold his soul to Satan for one bloody fag.

It was then he saw the light beyond the gates, faint blob among the fog shrouded crypts, headstones, and memorials. He thought he was hallucinating to begin with and then he realized there was indeed a light wandering about the grounds. Grabbing the torch from the glove box, he slipped from the car and darted across the A322 and to the boundary of the cemetery grounds. He might be silver-haired, but he wasn’t that damned old, he thought as he tucked the torch in the waist of his jeans and scaled the fence, dropping to the other side with a muffled thump in the thickening fog. At least if a security guard appeared he could flash his badge and not spend the night in lock-up for trespassing.

Spotting the distant light once more, he drew his gun and worked his way through the grounds, darting through pitch-black shadow. His superiors would more than likely nail him to the wall if security discovered he was creeping about Brookwood in the middle of night not to mention send him for psychological testing, but he could care less. As much as the man had been a thorn in his side, he’d also considered him a friend and colleague. No matter what had occurred on that roof between Sherlock and Moriarty, the scheming weasel, the man deserved better. He’d earned the respect none of the fools with HMIC, his direct superiors, or the media vultures were willing to grant him.

Instinctually he was aware of the mystery light’s destination even before he identified the source. He’d attended the small memorial service and small it had been if one chose to ignore the hoards of media lurking in the distance. They all wanted to catch a glimpse of John Watson, former army doctor, who’d discovered himself drawn into one of the most elaborate hoaxes London had ever seen. It didn’t seem to matter their stories had enough plot holes to shame even the worst novelist. The drama and chaos was what they sought which was what sold papers. All one had to do was check the front page of the Metro or Evening Standard on any given day to be aware of that.

Lestrade had met with Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft the prior afternoon and insisted the police needed to be present to control the crowds. The man was more insufferable than his younger brother had ever been, simply in a different way. Sherlock had never presumed to fit in with the lower forms of humanity, but Mycroft did. Looking into those vastly intelligent eyes, Lestrade got the feeling he was looking into the eyes of Lucifer himself. His outward appearance was of a typical upper class gentleman, but there was nothing gentle about the man.

He dismissed Lestrade’s concerns over the possible media frenzy with a sarcastic tip of the lips and informed him there would be no need for the involvement of Scotland Yard or London’s finest. After all, hadn’t they done enough? He had wanted nothing more than to punch him in his smug face. How could he be so calm even dare he say emotionless considering his brother leapt to his death a mere two days prior?

It was a closed casket service, not surprising, but there was something niggling at the back of his brain. He hadn’t become a DI by sleeping his way up the proverbial ladder or by kissing powerful arses as so many of his cohorts had. He’d gotten there through good old-fashion work and intelligence. Something simply did not add up and he was positive Mycroft’s sticky fingers had been involved.

John on the other hand wasn’t involved in what he was sure was a conspiracy, headed by Sherlock’s asinine brother. The grief and horror he saw shining in the man’s eyes was far more real than anything else had been since Sherlock’s supposed suicide. He had yet to see him shed a tear, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t grieving. The relationship the two had cultivated was unique and he knew John had cared for Sherlock as he would a brother.

Standing beneath the swaying branches, he’d listened as the priest droned on about ashes, heaven, and grief. None of the words penetrated his thoughts as he watched those present with sharp eyes. Two pieces were missing in the story John had told the police afterward. Moriarty and the reporter Kitty Riley were both unaccounted for in the big picture. It was during the service, Lestrade noted a dark figure in the distance lurking in the shadows of trees. If he hadn’t been standing next to his coffin, he would have been certain it was Holmes, but he was and it couldn’t be—could it.

Later, he found himself standing on the roof of the building Sherlock had leapt from, the wind tearing through his hair and the sun trying its damnedest to blind him despite his aviators. There had to be an answer to the twitch in his brain. He’d already been to Riley’s flat and there was nothing. It was as if she’d never existed. John had sworn it was there that he and Sherlock had confronted Moriarty, the man claiming to be an actor Sherlock had hired to play the villain. Nothing added up.

Kicking at the pebbled roof with one foot, Lestrade stared down at the street far below and wondered if perhaps John hadn’t seen what he thought. Was it possible an educated doctor, a seasoned soldier, could have been mistaken about witnessing the death of his best friend? It seemed impossible, but it was obvious John Watson believed what he saw that afternoon. Sherlock Holmes was a cold bastard at times. There was no doubt of that. But would he really have forced John to witness his death in such a callous manner? Lestrade knew the man better than most if it were even possible to know him at all. There was one thing he did know for sure though. Sherlock Holmes never did anything without a clear concise reason even if the rest of humanity didn’t see the reason at the time.

It ate at Lestrade like no other case before. His superiors told him without preamble to drop it. The case closed. They warned him to steer clear of anything to do with Sherlock Holmes or James Moriarty. There was the implied threat if he didn’t there would be hell to pay and probably the end of his career as the bow on that particular package.

So here he was creeping through a churchyard in the middle of the bloody night following a light he was damned sure had something to do with Sherlock. He caught up with the source of the light exactly where he imagined he would. John Watson was kneeling directly in front of what had to be the simplest gravestone Lestrade had ever seen.

Most gravestones were elaborate things not reflective of the lives led by those who lay beneath the silent earth, but rather an exaggerated and flamboyant version of the life they represented. Sherlock Holmes’ final resting spot on the other hand should be an ostentatious memorial of exaggerated proportions more befitting of the life the man had led. Instead, his earthly remains lay interred beneath a plain black marble stone, name engraved in simple letters.

As he watched from the shadows, John reached out hand splayed on the rich black earth from which grass had just began to sprout. He cleared his throat, sound loud in the darkness and his shoulders slumped forward. “I’m still waiting.”

The words were spoken in such a gentle tone Lestrade nearly missed them. His gut clenched and a blush of shame swept up his throat at listening to what should be a private moment. Had it been anyone else he could have cared less, but this was John Watson. He was a man of silent strength, endless patience, and he deserved better than an exhausted DI listening in on a midnight conversation with his deceased friend. He was about to leave when he was drawn back by the other man’s next words.

“Do you understand what you’ve done? It wasn’t simply Mrs. Hudson and I. You left others behind to pick up the pieces of your foolishness as well. Lestrade is suffering, as are all the families of those you helped. I know you never gave a damn about helping other people…” the words caught in his throat, “at least not in the beginning.”

It was then Lestrade realized John cared more for the man than he’d ever imagined. His shoulders shook with what Lestrade imagined were silent tears, dignity in place even when he believed he was alone.

“You should have allowed me to kill Moriarty when we had the chance. I know you would have never pulled the trigger you were so intrigued by his bloody game. A part of me hates you for caring more for the game than for our friendship or for the people the bastard murdered. You know I would have—pulled the trigger that is—just as I pulled the trigger on that bloody idiot who worked for him.”

Lestrade lifted one eyebrow certain he had no business listening now. He’d suspected when it had occurred John was responsible for the cabbie’s death. What he hadn’t known was the murderous man had worked for Moriarty. The idea someone would chose to kill for another was anything but new, yet Lestrade was always amazed at the lengths to which manipulative creatures such as Moriarty could go. Using the pain and suffering of others as a means to an end and end it had in a glorious splash of crimson on a busy London street.

Before he could stop himself, he’d stepped out of the shadows, holstered his gun, and knelt next to John, startling him. He looked down the barrel of the gun held with the steady hand of man who’d taken far more lives than Lestrade could imagine.

“Bloody hell! I could have killed you, Lestrade.” He growled face flush with anger and grief. “What are you doing creeping about in a churchyard in the middle of the night?”

“I could ask the same of you.” He offered a smile. “But then what would be the point?”

John holstered his gun in silence then ground his fists into his eye sockets until Lestrade was sure he was going to blind himself with the pressure. If he strained his ears hard enough, he was positive he could hear John’s heart cracking.

“What do you want, Lestrade?”

“Nothing.” he sighed. “I couldn’t sleep and…”

Words failed him as he watched John’s hands drop to his lap. “Welcome to my life.”

The sound that escaped John was, he imagined, supposed to be a laugh although there was nothing funny in the least about it. There was bitterness in the tonal quality, a bitterness he’d never heard in John’s voice before.

“You know I keep thinking if I return enough eventually he’ll meet me here and explain it all away. Is that crazy or what?”

Lestrade nodded as he got to his feet and then held out his hand. “Not as crazy as you might believe.”

Blinking John stared up at him and for a moment, Lestrade thought he would tell him to sod off. Instead, John accepted his hand and allowed Lestrade to pull him from the cold damp ground.

“I threatened to put a bullet between his brother’s eyes if he didn’t allow me to see the body. Not that it did a bit of good. Pompous ass said it would be better if I remembered Sherlock as he was rather than the shattered thing he’d become.”

“Perhaps, he was trying to protect you in his own way.”

Their eyes met in the glare of the torch and John laughed, genuinely amused this time. “You don’t believe that anymore than I do. The only thing Mycroft is ever concerned with is protecting his own arse.”

“Not true.” Lestrade dusted the knees of his jeans off. “He had you protecting his brother.”

“And right mess I made of that.” John snorted. “I should have never gotten involved with Sherlock, Mycroft, or any of it.”

Why he’d chosen that precise moment to reach out, he’d never know. It had never crossed his mind John Watson soldier, doctor, and friend blamed himself for Sherlock’s death. It was clear as crystal in his eyes and the shadows lingering beneath them. He did understand grief and even self-blame though. Once he’d believed he had everything a man could dream of and a future built on a solid foundation. When his wife had chose to leave him though it had began to crumble. All he had was his career, his calling, and then even that had begun to fall apart and all it had taken was a few well-placed lies.

His hand settled on John’s shoulder, their eyes meeting, and he knew. He knew without a doubt there had been far more between the two men. It might have been one-sided, unrequited, although he doubted John was even aware of his true feelings. The man didn’t seem one to revel in unresolved issues or unreturned affections, but then again love did strange things to people.

Squeezing John’s shoulder, he stared into the man’s eyes, stare so intense John turned away to focus on the looming shadow of Sherlock's headstone. “Did he know?”

“Know what?”

Lestrade braced himself for a punch. “That you were in love with him.”

The punch never came.

John shifted his gaze from the cold, black marble and laughed. The bastard laughed when Lestrade was certain he should be furious and pounding his face into mince. The sound reminded him of shattering glass, nothing happy, but rather more of the same bitterness he’d heard earlier.

“Would it have mattered if he had?” John questioned at last. “You and I both know Sherlock had no use for love or anything else remotely human.”

Over John’s shoulder, Lestrade again saw the figure from the funeral service lurking in the distance. “Are you certain of that?”

The surprise in John’s eyes caught Lestrade off-guard. “Aren’t you?”

“I honestly have no idea.” He whispered.

 

So here, he was again. Months had passed and with time’s passing, John had ceased his nightly visitations to Brookwood. Lestrade had not though. He’d also given up the idea of dusting his hands of the entire thing.

Across the distant cemetery grounds, he watched as the familiar figure he’d witnessed more times than he could recall, darted among the trees. This time though he didn’t remain silent as he had all the others. He was exhausted and to be frank, done with the charade.

Lestrade pushed off the tree, flicking the remains of his cigarette into the dewy grass. “Sherlock!” he barked as loud as he could.

The figure halted and turned. For what seemed an eternity, they stared at one another and then as if in some silent mutual agreement began walking toward one another. The mist stirred in their wake, no movement other than that outside themselves.

Holmes halted a yard or so away, his face hidden in darkness, “Lestrade.”

For the first time in months, DI Gregory Lestrade allowed the fury boiling beneath his skin to rise up to the surface. “Are we done?” he hissed beneath his breath.

Above the moonlight pierced the drifting clouds and revealed Sherlock's face. He appeared exhausted, even perhaps thinner, eyes shadowed. “This is a dangerous game you insist on playing.”

Teeth clenched so hard, he believed the pressure might break his jaw, Lestrade moved forward. “The game I’m playing? You have your bloody nerve! I’m not the one who faked their own death and left their friends and family to mourn.”

He swore he saw something akin to guilt or perhaps regret, flash through his pale eyes. Good, Lestrade thought, the bastard should feel something for all the nastiness he’d caused.

“Mycroft was aware.”

Lestrade snorted in disgust. “Now why does that not surprise me? Cold-hearted bastards and not a human bone between the lot of you either.”

“You don’t understand. You need to stop following me.”

He moved closer, hands clenched so tight, his nails dug in his palms. “Then explain it to me before I shoot you.”

Sherlock lifted one eyebrow. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” His eyes narrowed. “I’m not the same man I was when you made a decision worthy of such utter stupidity that...”

“Moriarty had sights on all of you.” A flush crept into Sherlock’s face. “He was willing to kill every last one of you if I didn’t.”

Lestrade’s stomach plummeted. He’d never considered Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and self-described sociopath would fake his own death simply to save those around him. He’d never seemed to give a damn one way or another, more concerned with his experiments and mind games than with the people who—

“You need to tell him you’re alive.” Lestrade’s voice lowered.

“Who?”

Spinning on heel, Lestrade began laughing. “You truly are a complete idiot when it comes to the feelings of others.”

“Excuse me?”

He turned back eyes meeting Sherlock’s confused gaze. “John!” he snapped. “You need to tell him you’re alive.”

“Now why would I do that after I’ve gone to all the trouble of making him believe I was dead?”

“He’s in love with you—you stupid sod!”

For the first time in seven years, Lestrade witnessed something he’d never imagined he would—Sherlock Holmes speechless. If it were possible for him to grow paler that was exactly what happened. It was obvious Sherlock had never had a clue about John’s feelings. Why that surprised Lestrade he couldn’t have said. Sherlock stumbled back, one arm flailing, and any grace he’d possessed before dissipated with the sudden shock.

“Sherlock?”

Concerned, Lestrade took a step forward, reaching out to grasp the man’s arm as he lost his footing and tumbled toward one of the monuments. Had he not managed to grab Sherlock he was damn sure the man would have split his skull open on the sharp edged marble. Before he could say anything further, Sherlock managed to get his feet beneath him and shrugged him off, eyes narrowing.

“You cannot tell him. There is far too much at stake, too much work left to do.”

Bitter anger rose in Lestrade’s throat. “What could be more important than your best friend?”

Sherlock shook his head, wild curls bouncing around his face. “He cannot know. None of them can know.”

Turning he darted away, Lestrade on his tail, until he vanished from sight into the trees edging the cemetery. Sherlock had the advantage and Lestrade fell to his knees, ribcage aching from his bid to outrace the younger man. It took a good ten minutes for him to catch his breath and he cursed beneath it as he pushed to his feet. As he stood there wondering what the hell Sherlock had stepped in he realized there had been genuine fear in the man’s eyes. There was something keeping him away. Something horrifying enough that it instilled honest fear in a man Lestrade hadn’t believed capable of such emotion.

He was done with this foolishness, he thought. John was a friend, a man he respected for the strength and defiance he’d shown throughout the time he’d known him. In Lestrade’s eyes, John Watson deserved the truth no matter the outcome considering the things he’d done in the name of friendship and eventually in love. Sherlock might think John weak and incapable of dealing with whatever mess he’d gotten himself involved in, but Lestrade knew better.

Turning away, he headed back to his car. If Sherlock were unwilling to tell him the truth, he knew one man who could. Lestrade would get the truth from Mycroft Holmes, even if it ended his career or life.

~Finis~


End file.
